The Criminal
by Tango Fox
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is not who he appears to be. He is clever, cunning and ruthless. And for him, danger is the most delicious thing he could ever experience.
1. Sherlock

1-1

Sherlock looked up at Moriarty as he pointed his gun towards the bomb which lay on the floor. He desperately wanted to smirk at Moriarty, but he forced himself to keep his cool composure. His pulse was racing dangerously and his heart felt as if it were lodged deep in his throat. Electrodes were whizzing around his brain and his palms tingled, though they were slick with sweat. He was excited. For this is what he enjoyed, the chase, the game, the flurry of danger. Of course, the fun was winning, being spectacularly victorious, which this time it obviously would be.

Almost a month ago Sherlock Holmes had met James Moriarty in a chic bar in the centre of Mayfair. Both were impeccably dressed, excruciatingly handsome, and devilishly charming. It took less than three hours from their introduction for them to both be in Moriarty's plush apartment, fucking. It was after that, post-coitus, that Sherlock realised how brilliant James really was. He had a mind as beautiful as his body, intellect almost worthy of his own. He lapped it up hungrily; he planned to put it to his use. And of course James wanted in on the fun, because it was what they were both made of, fun, danger and destruction. They sat naked with each other all night long, hatching a wonderful plan to keep them both excited for many days to come. After they had planned, they fucked again, more violently, leaving marks Sherlock thought were sure to scar.

Now in the swimming pool filled with excitement and desire for the game, he suppressed the smile which threatened to dance across his lips. Because this was it, what it was all about. The game was the most exciting thing he had ever experienced.

Manipulation was Sherlock's forte, and as clever as Jim Moriarty was, he hadn't quite figured out he was neatly trapped in Sherlock's puppet strings. Either that or he secretly enjoyed being controlled. Sherlock never got his hands dirty; he saw no fun in that. The fun was manipulating people, playing games, making them think you are a god. The greatest game he had ever played began with the cab driver. A pathetic, lonely old man who thought himself a genius. At the time, the statement of intellect made Sherlock laugh out loud, a deep, silken laugh that made everyone around him tremble. He adored having that effect on humans. The miserable man was dying, defeated by a little old aneurysm. To Sherlock that made him even more delectable, even more willing to bend any way Sherlock wanted him to. So his elaborate plan began to form, and he sat in his room surrounded by his silken sheets and his expensive pillows, driving himself insane with lust and pride at himself. Moriarty became a loyal figureheads figurehead if you will, acting as this ringleader, when really he was just another pawn, only this pawn liked it. Of course the cab driver was offered ludicrous amounts of money for his participation in the game, and oh how Sherlock enjoyed it. He sat gleefully staring at his laptop, watching the CCTV as the pathetic individuals cried and took the wrong pill, painfully fading away from life. After each one Sherlock raced over to Moriarty's to have him, almost as if he was rewarding the Irishman for being a good boy. Then of course, came his favourite part. The police came knocking, begging for his assistance, begging for the exceptional consulting detectives to solve their crimes and heal their woes. He delighted in it, using his intellect once again to fool everyone, to make everyone around him dance without them even realising it. When he placed himself in the game, he had to stop himself giggling uncontrollably at how clever he really was, at how the incredibly stupid cabbie had no idea how he was being played. Sherlock took the right pill; of course he did, because he was superior to everyone.

There was an unexpected circumstance that night. For Sherlock had somehow gained a roommate. Upon first inspection he found John Watson intriguing, and he couldn't resist the idea of having him close, having him around to study. However for the first time in his life, John Watson surprised him, and he found that delectable. Doctor Watson, a man who entered his life less than twenty-four hours previously, had shot a man dead in an attempt to save Sherlock Holmes' life. It was then that Sherlock had considered involving John Watson in the plan, but not yet, not until he fully understood how the doctor really worked.

That night Sherlock didn't see Moriarty, instead he played the perfect flatmate, spending the night being _friendly_ and sociable.

His next plan was incredibly devilish. Jim had been the one to have a fondness for smuggling; he had done it for years. But when Sherlock discovered a smuggler had ripped off Jim, he couldn't help but set his own plan in motion yet again. When the assassin had made his way to London, it was Sherlock who planted doubts in his mind about his sibling, warned him that the woman would be best disposed of. Again, he watched gleefully as humans were destroyed and as he played the clever part of the hero. However this time, John had disappointed his expectations, shunned his offer of friendship in front of an old associate of Sherlock's. If he were in a worse temper, he would have ordered Moriarty to dispose of Sebastian Wilkes, messily and with haste. He didn't understand the doctor, and he wondered if his study would soon come to an end. Although strangely he found no desire in wanting to kill John Watson, none at all.

The third game almost sent Sherlock mad with excitement. He and Jim role-played against each other, Jim the insane criminal, Sherlock the cunning hero. After every 'case' solved, they would both fuck brutally, lapping up their victory. For a while, nobody died, for the thrill of the game was enough for them both. But of course Sherlock got bored, Moriarty got bored, and a victim had to be disposed of to spice things up. It made the police frantic, it filled Jim with desire, and it made Sherlock's heart race.

He loved the game, it made his knees go weak and his head spin. He also loved something, _someone_ else, but of course, embracing that was not an option for him. Doctor Watson wasn't the sort of man to play with him, and Sherlock didn't think life was any fun without games.

He let that trademark smile flicker across his face this time as he stared at Moriarty, his eyes full of excitement and danger, and he pulled the trigger.


	2. John

1-2

John knew what Sherlock intended to do; he knew how Sherlock intended to beat Moriarty. Before Sherlock had even pulled the trigger John's eyes were closed tight, prepared for the blast. He always expected it would be likely for him to die in an explosion anyway, what with him being a soldier.

The pool was deadly silent, the only sound, the echoing of his own heartbeat drumming in his head. He opened his eyes to see both men staring at each other, standing completely still and calm. The grin on Moriarty's face had not shifted; he looked utterly insane, and delighted at the same time. Neither John nor Sherlock had anticipated he would come back for either of them, and that's what pleased the psychopath. He liked the fact his moves were a surprise, that he was one step ahead of everyone else. However, if John wasn't so disgusted by the man's bloodlust, he thought he may actually be impressed. This cleverness, the planning, the games, it was incredibly remarkable.

He watched the two men with confusion. In a volatile situation like this, he couldn't understand why either man was so calm. If he were Sherlock he would have shot Moriarty straight in the head, damn the consequences, as long as the man were no longer a danger to anyone. Of course though, Sherlock loved games as much as the madman and it seemed he couldn't resist playing one last time. To begin with John didn't understand Sherlock's strange fascination with the world of crime and murder, but of course, once the danger came tumbling down on them, John was just as exhilarated and satisfied as his flatmate was.

He turned his head to Sherlock, and then, everything began to move in slow motion. John saw the corners of Sherlock's mouth turn up in a maniacal fashion as he squeezed hard on the trigger, dispersing a bullet. Alarm bells went off in John's head straight away; images of the war were blasted at him. He tried to block them out, tried to dive at Sherlock to somehow protect them both from the blast, but his body would not move, almost as if it weren't really happening, as if the whole thing was a dream. The blurry images of Afghanistan melted into the present and he began to question what was real and what wasn't. His head was spinning and he had stopped breathing completely. He closed his eyes, holding his breath still, waiting for the death he had been evading.

His expectations were not met though, as he found himself being roughly pulled on his feet. He was in a daze, as thin but firm fingers grasped his wrist and dragged him along at a quick pace. He felt as if he was on auto-pilot, he was not moving his own limbs by choice, everything was working, but it was again as if he were sleeping, as if his body weren't really his own. As he was dragged along harshly he blinked several times to shake away his daze, and all he could see was thick grey smoke, so thick that he could not even see the man in front of him, only the familiar fingers tight around his wrist. He was confused, had the bomb gone off? He remembered no explosion as such, just a strange ringing from the shot fired, and then it was almost as if he had blacked out, because the next thing he remembered was being pulled up.

He felt the cold air hit his lungs, yet still he did not stop running, still he was pulled along. He did not know their destination, he wasn't even sure they were alive; his head was pounding with bewilderment at the whole situation. Suddenly and abruptly, he hearted a deep, silken laugh from in front of him, a chuckle which excited him and scared him at the same time. They were slowing down now, and John's vision was coming into focus slightly, yet still all he really saw was darkness. He knew they were outside as the cold air bit at his skin and he could hear traffic ringing in his ears alongside the gunshot noise which he feared he would never stop hearing.

He blinked again and found himself in a taxi. He vaguely remembered being shoved into the vehicle by Sherlock. He looked over at the detective and cocked his head, opening his mouth to ask Sherlock what the hell was going on. Sherlock placed a single finger against John's lips signalling him to be quiet.

"At the flat," was all Sherlock said, before removing his finger and turning to gaze out of the car window.

John resisted the urge to bring his own hand up to his lips. His skin was tingling, he tried to put it down as adrenaline, but he knew Sherlock's touch often sent shivers through his body. He wanted to know more, desperately. He was utterly confused at how they were both still alive, and he was worried that Moriarty was still alive and would only find them again. He knew Sherlock would answer nothing until they got back to the flat so he turned his gaze out of the other window, trying to gain control of his shock-filled body.

He hadn't even properly noticed they had arrived at Baker Street until he felt Sherlock's fingers on his wrist again, dragging him out of the car. He allowed himself to be dragged up to the flat like a limp doll, and he allowed Sherlock to push him down into his chair. Sherlock sat opposite him patiently, watching him come around properly, eyeing him as if he were a fascinating experiment.

John had to calm himself down, bring his body back to normal. He shut his eyes and concentrated on blocking out the noises that were buzzing around his brain. When he had successfully forced himself to shut out the noises, he opened his eyes again. His breathing had slowed to a normal pace, as had his heartbeat, and his limbs no longer felt unattached. His brow was slick with sweat from the whole experience, and his clothes were covered in grey dirt.

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?" he had hoped his words would come out calm and clear, but instead his voice sounded cracked and shaky, as if he were recovering from a blow to the throat. He felt as if he had, he felt as if he had been delivered blows everywhere. Now he was sat down shooting pains were running down his body from the running, and a steady throbbing pain lay in his leg.

Sherlock leaned forward. "I saved our lives." Said Sherlock simply. John did not answer; he just blinked several times at the detective. Sherlock sighed and leaned back into his chair. "I knew that the bomb was not real, when I pulled it off you I noticed the residue indicating it was a smoke bomb. I shot the package allowing us to escape from Moriarty's snipers."

For a while John found himself absolutely speechless. He couldn't actually believe that whole time his bomb was not rigged to kill him, Moriarty hadn't intended to destroy them both, and he was just playing a game, as he always was.

"John, come back to me" said Sherlock, snapping John out of his daze. He looked at Sherlock in detail. He was agitated, fidgeting much more than usual.

"Are you alright?" John asked hesitantly.

"Yes fine," he replied. "I do have business to take care of for a few hours though."

"Want me to come with you?" John asked. He was in no state to leave the flat, but he felt like he should be of some use.

Sherlock stood up and shook his head, smoothing down his jacket as he did so.

"No that's quite alright, you need to rest. Will you be okay on your own? I could send Mrs Hudson up to tend to you if you like?"

It was John's turn to shake his head. "No I'll be fine. Will probably just go to sleep, I need it."

Sherlock shrugged on his coat and scarf and headed towards the door, out of John's view.

"Sleep in my bedroom, I insist," Sherlock stated. "You should not climb up those stairs; your leg is agitating you. I shall sleep on the sofa when I return. I'll be back in a few hours."

John closed his eyes with weariness and snapped them open when he felt Sherlock's pale hand rest upon his head. It was gone in an instant though, as when he turned around, all that was visible were Sherlock's coat tails fluttering behind him as he ran down the stairs, two at a time.

John was confused. His flatmate was possibly the oddest person he had ever met. But the thing was, there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Sherlock Holmes was more than just an eccentric genius, and whatever that something was, he was determined to hide it from John.


	3. Moriarty

2-1

Sherlock shoved his gloved hands into his pocket as he walked briskly towards Hyde Park. It would only take him twenty minutes to arrive at Jim's apartment, and he could use the fresh air. He felt different this time, as if the game had not been successful. Maybe it's because Sherlock knew this was the end. Both men had agreed that this is how the game would end, that they would both return to their own lives after this. Sherlock was supposed to take Moriarty's warning seriously and stop investigating, and Jim was meant to disappear of everyone's radar. Jim had already planned a long holiday to the Caribbean; he intended to lay low in style. Of course Sherlock wouldn't need to, he would never be a suspect, and he would be the heroic detective, as always.

John confused him. The man had so many questions; he could see it in his eyes. Yet instead of calling out Sherlock on details, he still trusted him, still did what Sherlock told him to do. He wondered if John had already figured it out, and was just biding his time before he called the police. Sherlock would let him. He didn't know what it was about John, but if anyone would bring his games to an end, he wouldn't mind at all if it was John Watson who did it. He didn't regret involving the doctor in his affairs, because of course; his deductions skills showed him how much John enjoyed it all. He secretly hoped he could tell the doctor anything and it wouldn't drive him away.

He had approached Moriarty's building now, and was let in by the doorman. He was a regular in the building and the doorman was friendly enough to not make him wait as other guests had to. The apartment building was expensive and exclusive, and suited James Moriarty perfectly. He was a man of extravagance, someone who liked everybody to be aware of his wealth. His daytime job was that of an investment banker, he needed something respectable to keep him out of the limelight and to put an honest salary into his bank account. He did a good job at being inconspicuous, it even impressed Sherlock.

He strode into the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse, leaning his head against the cool mirror as the lift rose towards the top of the building. He couldn't get that damn doctor out of his head. He was not himself tonight, and the strange things he had done were sure to have aroused suspicion from John. Offering his bedroom was bad enough, but then to touch him? Sherlock decided he must be going mad. It was ridiculous for him to believe he was developing feelings for the man when he had a perfectly good partner to keep him happy in and out of the bedroom. But after tonight, Jim would be gone and the two men would not have contact again. Sherlock wanted the deal to be over, the game was becoming dull and he wanted done with it. But he didn't want to be left on his own, he found that painfully boring.

The elevator doors opened and Moriarty stood at the end of the hallway in the open door, with two champagne glasses in his hand. He had a grin on his face; similar to the one he wore at the pool, indicating he was still elated about today's events. He was shirtless, and still wearing his dress trousers from earlier. They were lightly dusted with debris from the smoke bomb. His stance was casual, leant against the open doorframe, his black hair resting lightly on the wood. Sherlock could smell the desire the man was feeling before he had even reached him. He hadn't showered, he never did when they met up, and Sherlock knew that Jim liked to keep the smell and feel of the crime scene upon his body.

He strode over to Jim, who placed a quick kiss upon Sherlock's cheek, before frowning.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Sherlock just sighed and shook his head. Moriarty attempted to hand him a champagne glass which Sherlock batted away.

"I want you, not a drink," said Sherlock gruffly. He wasn't in the mood for niceties, everything was irritating him and he just wanted to be taken to bed to forget his worries. He swept into the flat and carried through into the bedroom, beginning to unbutton his coat. He heard Jim close the door and place the glasses down, and then heard his footsteps behind him.

"Did I say you could undress?" asked Jim, his tone cold and authoritative.

A smirk danced across Sherlock's face as his allowed his mind to slip into role-play. While in the real world it was Sherlock who made Moriarty dance, in the bedroom Jim was the one holding the strings. Sherlock loved this almost as much as he loved the real game, it was so relaxing to let go of his brain and control, to allow someone else to dominate him. He knew Moriarty liked that he had control over a superior being, and he was more than happy to comply.

Sherlock paused for a second, his fingers lingering on his buttons, and then resumed removing his coat in an act of defiance. With one sharp movement, Moriarty had kicked his legs out from under him and shoved him onto the bed. Fingers grasped at his hair and his face was shoved into the mattress, inhibiting oxygen from reaching his lungs. Even that simple movement caused arousal in him, and he began to struggle playfully under Jim's grip.

Jim flipped him over and slid a hand into Sherlock's coat, grasping hold of his hip, digging his nails in as he did so. Sherlock could see how aroused he was already, from his dilated pupils to his too tight trousers. Sherlock squirmed slightly as Jim's nails dug in deeper, and an evil look flashed across his eyes as he raised his other hand with intention to punish Sherlock. Instead Sherlock caught him by the wrist, and brought his hand down to his mouth, and began to slowly graze his teeth across Jim's fingertips.

"No marks jimmy," he said gruffly.

"Working tomorrow then?" asked Jim as he began to undo the last of Sherlock's coat buttons slowly.

"Something like that." He knew why he didn't want to return to 221B covered in marks, but he wasn't going to admit that. It was bad enough he was thinking inappropriate things himself.

"Come on Jim," he purred. "I have no time for games tonight, I am too tightly wound. Hurry up and take me Jim."

Moriarty didn't need to be asked twice. He ripped off Sherlock's coat with haste, and his shirt soon followed. Sherlock tipped his head upwards and began to flick his tongue over Jim's chest. A small hand was pushed firmly onto his forehead, sending him back towards the bed. He grinned with the forcefulness and desire that he loved so much, attempting to paw at Jim, but always being pushed away, being forced to play by the rules for once. He was incredibly impatient, and Jim could see it in his eyes. His whole body was tense with a mixture of lust and stress, and he needed both those things relieved of him, and quickly. Moriarty responded appropriately to Sherlock's begging eyes, quickly stripping him down to nakedness, before standing up, removing his Vivienne Westwood belt. Sherlock began to sit up, filled with a desire to touch Jim, but he was pushed back on the bed. Jim opened the drawer in the cabinet behind him and removed a pair of police issue handcuffs and a small bottle of lubricant. He crawled over Sherlock and lifted his hands above his head, handcuffing his wrists together; Sherlock struggled, but playfully, not enough to push Jim to hurt him.

"Too much squirming will leave awful marks on those pretty wrists of yours," Jim teased, tracing kisses down Sherlock's abdomen as he worked at removing his own trousers.

"Oh shut up and fuck me," growled Sherlock, aching with impatience.

Jim chuckled as he removed the rest of his clothes, both men were naked now. "Oh don't worry Holmes, I plan to, I plan to make the whole of London hear you scream my name."

Jim emptied some of the bottle onto his hand and began to stroke himself. He was positioned so that his legs were on top of Sherlock's, preventing him moving all that much, making him stays still and watch. Despite the warning of marks, Sherlock did struggle against the metal restraints, of course to no avail. He was wound up; he felt that if Jim didn't offer him release soon, he might combust.

Jim could see the desperation all over Sherlock's body. He noted the tiny beads of sweat that began to form on his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, the way his naked body glistened with want. He moved forward slightly and positioned himself in-between Sherlock's perfect legs. He buried his hands into Sherlock's jutting hips, entering him with a force vigorous enough to cause pain.

Sherlock gasped loudly at the motion, his surprised pants soon turning into guttural moans as Moriarty quickened the pace. Sherlock longed to rake his fingers over Jim's smooth chest, but his restraints and the awkward positioning of his arms kept him from doing so. Instead he moved his legs, wrapping them tightly around Jim, moving the two closer and deeper. Sherlock knew he wouldn't last long, the motions were too fast, too intense, and he was too built up. His mind was swimming and all he could picture was the frumpy awkward doctor that would be lying in his bed right now. As he felt waves of pleasure begin to take over his body, he had to snap himself into focus, biting his lip to stop himself shouting out the wrong name. Both men came together, hard, uttering cries of ecstasy.

Moriarty took a second to compose himself, before withdrawing and reaching under the pillow to retrieve a key and unlock Sherlock's handcuffs. He retrieved a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the bedside drawer, leaning against the headboard, offering Sherlock the packet while lighting up. Sherlock shuffled upwards to sit next to Moriarty, shoving a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it, and inhaling deeply.

"He's not good you know Sherlock," said Jim, out of the blue.

"What?"

"John. He's not good; he's just like you and me."

Sherlock mentally cursed himself for thinking he could hide details from a man almost as brilliant as he.

"I don't think so," sighed Sherlock. "He is going to undo me."

"No, he is going to be the partner you need, unlike me, the partner you wish you needed."

Sherlock looked over at him, slightly confused at the meaning.

"I am a genius," he explained, tapping his cigarette into the ash tray on the side. "So are you Sherlock, eventually we will clash, we will kill each other. We do not like each other as friends; we just appreciate each other's intellect and sexual prowess, that is all. John is a different sort of mind, but useful nonetheless. You two share a strong friendship bond, and you both have painfully obvious romantic feelings towards each other. And judging by the fact you almost called me John during sex, I assume you feel for him sexually too."

Sherlock just glared at Jim. He hated being analysed; it reminded him of Mycroft and him as children. He was angry too, because he knew everything Jim said was fact, and there wasn't much he could do to deny it.

"What will you?" Jim asked. "Will you tell him?"

"I have a feeling he already knows," grumbled Sherlock, puffing angrily on his cigarette. "I won't be surprised if half of Scotland Yard are waiting for me when I return to Baker Street."

Jim chuckled, stubbing out his cigarette and picking up the packet again.

"If he does know, he will be waiting for you to ask why you didn't let him play in the first place. Now, my plane leaves in an hour, have another cigarette with me before you return home to your partner"

Sherlock took another cigarette out of the box, leaning his head further back, exhausted from Jim, and not at all free of distress as he hoped he would be.


	4. Mycroft

2-2

Sherlock Holmes had been out of the flat for over an hour when John Watson decided to move from his chair. His entire body roared with pain and he couldn't bring himself to sit up. He was exhausted mentally and physically, and thought it would be in his best interests to have a nap in the chair. He dozed off easily, but he found sleep not as peaceful as he had hoped, and troubling nightmares soon caught up with him, making sure he didn't sleep for long. He found himself waking with a start, covered in sweat, his breathing harsh and fast. He sat forward and tried to calm himself, tried to persuade his mind that his nightmare was nothing more than fiction. There wasn't much he remembered, other than splashes of red, and high pitched screams mixing together with deep maniacal laughter. He shuddered even recalling it, everything had seemed so real, and the laugh had seemed so familiar...

He stood up slowly, gritting his teeth together as he did so. His body hurt all over, and he was really starting to feel it now. He had minor injuries from his kidnapping, but it was the throbbing pain in his leg muscles which were causing him the most distress. He had been pushed too hard, and now his body was screaming in protest. He limped over to the coffee table and grabbed his laptop, before shuffling back to the chair and sitting down. The flat was dimly lit, a lamp in the corner of the room provided sufficient brightness, and John now noticed Sherlock had turned up the thermostat before he left. The ambient lighting and warmth made him feel drowsy again, but he shook the feeling off, remembering what he had turned on his laptop to do. He opened up his search engine and typed 'Sherlock Holmes' then pressed enter. Last time when he had done a background search on the detective, he had immediately discovered his website and spent his evening poring over it, fascinated with the man's strange profession. This time however he wanted to dig deeper, because something just didn't sit right. He scrolled through news articles, each one adding to the mystery floating around in his head. How did Sherlock always end up on these exceedingly brilliant cases, and why had he never been stumped? John knew he was incredibly intelligent, but surely there was one case that stumped him. Then there was the strangely brilliant deductions he made, the ones which nobody in the world could possibly figure out. John couldn't for the life of his understand how every time Sherlock knew every little detail and everyone else, even the experts, knew nothing.

He almost dropped the laptop when he heard a knock at the door. It was completely unexpected, unless it was Sherlock forgetting his keys, John didn't know who would be calling so late. He limped over to the door, trying to hurry yet not cause too much discomfort at the same time. He undid the top lock, and opened the door to see Mycroft Holmes standing there, with an umbrella in his hand and a disconcerting smile upon his face.

"Good evening John," he smiled. "May I come in?"

John stood there for a second, rather taken aback by the unusual visit. However he was sure if Sherlock's brother felt the need to drop by, the matter at hand must be somewhat important. He stepped aside to let Mycroft in, closing the door behind him and following him into the living room. Mycroft sat himself down in Sherlock's chair, resting his umbrella at the side of his leg.

"Can I offer you a drink?" John asked, feeling a little awkward. The last time he and Mycroft were alone together wasn't exactly pleasant.

Mycroft shook his head. "No thank you, Althea is waiting, I cannot be too long. Please sit John, I want to discuss things."

John hesitated for a second before sitting in his chair, his legs hurt too much for him to protest anyway.

"Psychosomatic pain," Mycroft stated. John swore loudly at this, causing Mycroft's pleasant smile to turn into a frown. "Forgive me John, I did not mean to upset you, merely a slip of the tongue."

"What are you here for?"

"I'm here to give you answers. You have questions about my brother, no?"

John leaned forward now. "How do you know that?" he asked.

Mycroft waved his hand dismissing John. "I know everything of course. What I tell you, must obviously never leave this room. You are free to ask me whatever you like, and I will answer honestly."

"What do you really do in the government?" fired John.

Mycroft laughed. "About _Sherlock_ John. I am not the one you are interested in."

"Fine," grumbled John. He was right; he desperately needed to know what was going on.

"How does Sherlock know so much, how does he always solve this unsolvable cases?" he asked. He knew the answer of course he did, he just needed to have his suspicions confirmed.

"He's a very clever man," answered Mycroft. "But of course, only one person really knows the full details of the crime, the person who committed it in the first place."

John swallowed loudly, not sure what to say next.

"You are speechless," observed Mycroft. "Understandable, it is a lot of information. However John, you already knew this, I'm sure you knew from the first time you two worked together. You are not a stupid man, and Sherlock did little to hide his deeds from you."

"And you just let him get away with this, with these murders?"

"I let him entertain himself. As I said, Sherlock is a very clever man; he could tear apart the world if he wanted to. But instead he keeps his activities to a relative minimum, and I always keep my eye on him, making sure he never goes too far."

"I'm pretty sure murder is classed as too far," murmured John.

"Oh come now, don't act as if you are disgusted by his actions. I can see plainly how your body reacts to confirmation of your suspicions. You find it exciting, possibly even arousing, you want to be involved in Sherlock's life completely. He will allow you to do this."

John just stared at him.

"I know everything about you John," he said smiling. "I know about the things you did in Afghanistan, and I know how perfect you and Sherlock are for each other, there is absolutely no point in trying to deceive me."

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked

"Let him know that you know. Of course he will be delighted you have figured him out. Let him know you want to _play_."

"Murdering innocent people is wrong Mycroft," he stated, trying to cling on to his last bit of moral dignity.

"Sherlock mainly sticks to clever things, fraud, things like that. As for unfortunate victims, he always picks them for a reason. Believe me John, nobody is innocent, I have the files to prove that."

"I need to think about this," said John, hoping Mycroft would take his hint to leave.

"No you don't, you had made up your mind long ago. But I can see I have overstayed welcome, and Althea is surely restless. I hope to see you again soon John, it really was a pleasure."

With that Mycroft stood up and strode towards the door, shutting it behind him. John had not moved from the sofa. He just sat there, blinking furiously as his brain processed all the information. He mentally cursed Mycroft for being right, and especially for knowing about his time in Afghanistan. He wanted everything. He wanted the danger, the thrill, and Sherlock. Definitely Sherlock.

He stood up, his legs felt solid now, his heart hummed steadily in his chest. Just like that, he was sucked into a despicable world. He licked his lips at the thought of it, a small smile forming on his face. This whole life, the world he was to become a part of; nothing had ever sounded more enthralling to him.


	5. Three Choices

3-1

Sherlock hardly felt the cold night air as he walked slowly back to the flat. He felt strange, and he was sure it had more about the impending conversation than the departure of his lover. He and Jim had spent an hour together before they both had to depart. Jim was headed for Heathrow airport where he would board a flight to Antigua. They had sat and discussed his plans, neither having any desire to discuss their working relationship, and Sherlock definitely not wanting to discuss John. Jim had an old partner who had retired early in the Caribbean, and he planned to stay with him until his crimes were forgotten, or most likely, wiped off the system by John. Jim hadn't decided if he planned to stay abroad, but he told Sherlock he would not be leaving a contact number, and preferred if everything ended there. Sherlock agreed, it was much easier, and left less room for implication. He had hoped that Moriarty's departure would help things smooth over easier. He was worn out from all the excitement, and he wanted nothing more than to relax, spend time doing nothing dangerous, and maybe even pick up his violin.

He heard a car slow behind him as he reached the corner of Baker Street. He recognised the sound of Mycroft's car pulling up before he even turned his head. He slowed down but did not stop completely. The car rolled by and the backseat window came down, revealing Mycroft's face.

"What do you want brother, I do not have time," he said in an incredibly bored tone.

"We need to talk about that roommate of yours, and whether or not he will be disposed of."

Sherlock stopped dead then, the heel of his shoes making a loud clatter on the pavement. He whipped his head around to face the new halted car, his expression a look of pure, terrifying anger. The door was opened, inside sat Mycroft, and Anthea, who seemed otherwise engaged at her blackberry.

"Get out," spat Sherlock, looking at the woman.

She glanced up startled, turning to look at Sherlock's thunderous face, then to Mycroft, who nodded to indicate that she should vacate the vehicle. She shuffled on the seat towards the door and stood up out of the car, turning to look back for further instructions. She did not receive any however, because Sherlock shoved past her to sit in the car, shutting the door on her face as he did so. Mycroft was in a large conspicuous car, which inside left Sherlock plenty of room to sit across from Mycroft with his legs outstretched.

Mycroft frowned at him. "You shouldn't be so rude to Anthea."

"And you shouldn't issue death threats while curb crawling," he spat in retaliation.

"You misunderstand Sherlock"

"Then explain."

Mycroft mirrored Sherlock's seating position, leaning back into the seat slightly and stretching out his legs.

"I have just come from Baker Street, now knowing that John Watson knows everything about your _profession_. Do you understand what this means dear brother? He is either on your side or he isn't, and I cannot afford for you to have an enemy so informed"

"So what are you saying?" asked Sherlock.

"We have three options," explained Mycroft. "Well, you have three options. One, you and John become one, a team. You will operate together and be brothers in blood, trusting and working together. Two, John will leave the country with my help, and he will never think or talk of Sherlock Holmes again."

"And the third?"

"John Watson is assassinated. Of course by a psychotic ex army buddy who just hasn't got over the trauma." Sherlock hissed at this. "Come now brother, if he is willing to expose you I have no other option. Your trysts involve me too much, and I cannot compromise government security."

Sherlock swallowed as he took in the information. Everything he was saying was painfully right. If John was going to turn him into the police, Mycroft would remove him from the picture. If it were up to him, and if that were what John really wanted he would slap on the handcuffs himself, but Mycroft wouldn't take the risk of his involvement being discovered, and he certainly would not allow a scandal to break.

"So what are you proposing I do Mycroft?" he asked.

He laughed. "I am wise enough now to know Sherlock, that anything I say holds no value, and you shall do as you please. Nevertheless, it is my own opinion that John will remain quite happy at Baker Street."

"I doubt that," snorted Sherlock. "He will be repulsed knowing he has shared his home with a criminal."

"Maybe. Or maybe you are underestimating the man, and instead it may just strengthen your bonds."

"I doubt that." He paused, noting the fact the car had stopped. Sherlock noticed they had circled the block three times, and clearly had now stopped outside 221B. "So I go up there and do what exactly."

"Oh I'm sure he will speak first," offered Mycroft. "I do have to dash now; I have an early meeting which I should rest for."

"Until next time then brother."

"Indeed. Do be nicer to Anthea next time you see her, poor girl isn't used to the wrath of Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smirked at this, always happy when his ego was stroked, happy that his brother saw him in such a light. He exited the car and straightened himself up, waiting for the car behind to drive off before he walked towards the flat door. He looked up; noticing the warm glow in the first floor window, but the pitch black second floor, indicating John was still downstairs in the flat. Sherlock's bedroom also remained dark, so John had not retired to bed anywhere.

He braced himself, unsure of how the situation would pan out. He hoped things would go as Mycroft predicted, as he was most certainly not going to be happy about John either leaving the country or being _disposed of_. He had kept John around because he found him fascinating and fun, he was a good friend, and actually rather clever. Plus he absolutely adored Sherlock's intellect, frequently providing him with a beautiful ego boost. He wondered how John would react now, knowing that Sherlock's intellect was misplaced, and his brilliant crime scene deductions were nothing more than an elaborate show.


	6. Confrontation

**_A/N: Hey guys, just a quick note to let you know i wont be updating now until Saturday. Im going to London for the Sherlock Preview, so wont have access to a computer. I will however be taking a crack at some one-shots while im down there and uploading when i get back, if you have any prompts for me, i would love to hear them!_**

__**_Now the story. I have seen that some people are confused about my character direction, so i made a little post here (.com/post/13748277812/headcanon-for-criminal) about the characters. I think i would just ask you to read this with an open mind. Maybe ill do some flashbacks to make things clearer. Basically, the sherlock and john you are comfortable with have been comfortable sitting on a bed of dangerous and thrilling lies! I hope you enjoy, and i shall see you next week!_**

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><p><em>3-2: <em>

John wasn't alone for very long with his thoughts. Although it was at least half an hour since Mycroft had left the flat, to John's dizzy mind it felt more like a few seconds. He was internally fighting with himself. He should be disgusted at what he just learnt; he should be on the phone to Scotland Yard and arming himself against the madman. Instead he was excited, and he knew it was wrong. It was like the events in Afghanistan all over again, his heart was racing, and his head span with excitement. He knew it was wrong, everything he was feeling was morally wrong, but god he enjoyed it. Perhaps he really was as sick as Sherlock Holmes, or maybe Sherlock wasn't sick at all, maybe it was just normal. After all, he was insanely clever, it was understandable that he got bored easily, that he needed more stimulation those others. But then of course, that meant John had no excuse, he was just a normal man, who was sat in his living room becoming uncomfortably excited over the fact his flatmate was a master criminal.

He jumped out of his chair with fright when the door swung open. He turned around to see Sherlock standing in the door. John couldn't help but subconsciously lick his lips at the sight of the man in the doorway. Sherlock's hair was slightly windswept, curls sweeping across his forehead. His coat swung open to reveal wonderfully fitting clothes. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the chilly night air, and his eyes looked positively wild. He stood there, slowly removing his gloves from each hand, unwinding the scarf around his next, his lips parted slightly, and his eyes steady on John.

He kicked the door shut, causing John to snap out of his daze.

"I thought you would have gone to bed," said Sherlock, his way of saying hello.

"I had a visit from Mycroft."

"Oh?" He sounded incredibly indifferent. "What did my dear brother want? Another dull case I expected."

John ground his teeth together. "I've been thinking about the last case Mycroft gave us, the one with the dead worker," said John, trying to keep his voice calm and normal.

"What about it?" Sherlock glided around the flat, hanging his coat up and putting away his scarf and gloves.

"Well I just wondered what he had really done, you know, to deserve being murdered by you and your brother."

Sherlock's gaze turned incredibly harsh, sending a chill down John's spine. He didn't regret his words, these things needed to be said.

"What are you implying?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I'm not implying anything," he answered. "I'm saying I know Sherlock, Mycroft told me everything."

Sherlock laughed coldly. "Obviously not. I am not a cold blooded murder John, it appears you are misinformed."

"Then what are you?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly. "What's real and what's a play that you have created to amuse yourself. God Sherlock I knew you didn't care much for people, but to murder for your own amusement it's just..."

He couldn't even bring himself to finish his sentence; mainly due to the fact Sherlock was crossing the flat in long determined strides, advancing on John. John stepped backwards, panicking when he hit the wall, and Sherlock kept going, stopped so their noses were almost touching.

"John I am the cleverest man in the world," he growled. John's legs shook, for more reasons than fear. "I do not kill. I fix people's problems. I play games, but oh the games are fun. You've played the games John; you've enjoyed them haven't you. If I'm wrong, feel free, slap the cuffs upon my wrists."

His hands had gripped John's wrists now. He looked down at them, before looking back up at John with a smirk on his face.

"Dilated pupils, increased heartbeat, beginning to perspire, your breathing is sharp and fast. Maybe you're scared. No, look at you, you are not frightened of me, you never will be. It's something else. Oh John, you are aroused."

Sherlock did not give him time to protest; instead he brought their lips crashing down together, kissing John fiercely and passionately. John did not resist, he kissed back hard. He felt Sherlock's teeth graze his lips and suppressed a moan, shoving his tongue into Sherlock's waiting mouth. This was crazy, it was sick. He knew he shouldn't be feeling like this, but Sherlock surely was making some sense. He wasn't a wicked man, and while maybe he broke the law, surely it was justified...

Was killing someone ever justified?

John pulled away sharply from the kiss, yanking his wrists free and pushing Sherlock away from him. Anger bubbled up inside him and he balled his hands into a fist, before hitting Sherlock square across the jaw. The force made his whole body shake, and sent Sherlock staggering backwards, almost falling over the sofa behind him. His hand flung up to his face, and his eyes flashed with distress.

"I need to think," stated John gruffly. "This is all absolute madness Sherlock."

The detective didn't answer; he just stood there wide-eyed, running his fingers across his cheek. John wanted to run over and comfort him, tell him that he agreed that he wanted to play the game so badly. Was it so wrong? He would never get caught, there would always be danger. And how could he deny Sherlock Holmes? It wasn't in his power; he couldn't resist the charming man, not matter what he did or said. John was no less a monster. The idea of running around London committing and solving crimes made blood rush around his body, made his heartbeat quicken. He knew what he wanted. He knew he would internally fight with the morals of his choice. But he didn't care. He thought what life was when you couldn't live it how you wanted. No consequences, just games, fun and danger. How could he resist that?

He strode forward and shoved Sherlock hard in the chest so he felt onto the sofa. The detective whimpered, almost as if he was frightened. John jumped on Sherlock, his whole weight upon the detective in an instant, and his hand reached out to grab Sherlock's white throat. He applied pressure as he wrapped his fingers around. Sherlock's eyes were wider now, perhaps the man wasn't so clever at all, and maybe he really thought John was going to kill him. Instead, he leaned down and pressed their lips together, feeling more alive and excited than he had ever done.


	7. The Doctor Is Out

4-1

It had been nine minutes since John had left the flat. Make that ten, ten minutes. Sherlock still lay upon the sofa, his legs now pulled up close to his body. His jaw stung and ached, it was rare that he let an act of violence get to him. But he had not expected this reaction from John; he hadn't expected a punch in the face and then an empty room. At the very least he expected a citizen's arrest, and at the most, to be shot. John was brilliant with his revolver, and clearly had no aversions to shooting criminals, as he had proved with the taxi driver. He must have misread John's emotions, he couldn't have been aroused, and it must have been just pure fury. The kiss wasn't a sign of desire to John, just a way to show confusing force and dominance. No doubt John was now on his way to fetch Lestrade, or maybe fetch a more powerful gun.

Sherlock laughed to himself miserably. He was completely done for, and he wanted to damn Mycroft to hell for allowing him to become vulnerable in front of John. He had thought John would accept him, would somehow understand, but instead he had done the opposite. If he hadn't stupidly believed that John would accept him, he would have been able to talk himself out of the situation, to take John away from the truth. He had fooled the doctor long enough, he was sure he would be able to deceive him long enough for him to figure out a plan. But instead, he acted smart and cocky, let his emotions and passions loose, told the chilling truth.

What was even worse was that he knew Mycroft would go after John before he could do anything damaging. At the thought of John being 'disposed of' made him wail out loud. He didn't want his actions to be the death of John, and he didn't think he could persuade John to keep his secret; he was a good man, that's why he liked him so.

Eleven minutes.

Sherlock hardly even gave his phone time to ring before he picked up the call from his brother.

"John is walking through London," Mycroft stated.

"On his way to Scotland Yard no doubt," Sherlock replied bitterly.

"Once again you misunderstand the man," he chastised. "Use your brain Sherlock, did you actually pay attention to this man before he stormed out on you. He is pacing up and down a street confused at his flatmates deceit."

"What do you mean?"

"Surely you didn't expect him to act well after finding out you had lied to him instead of just being honest from the beginning."

"You know I couldn't tell him," Sherlock growled in response.

"Quite right I did, but John does not understand, obviously, because not all has been explained to him."

"What exactly is he planning on doing?"

Mycroft paused. "Oh by the looks of it, he is returning to the flat. For once Sherlock, don't be so _yourself_ with him. He probably needs time and a good explanation, so you are just going to have to be patient."

Sherlock hung up at that point, frustrated with Mycroft's words. He stood up and strode towards the window, looking both ways down the road, his eyes searching for John's black jacket amongst the passers-by. However he did not spot him coming either way, although Mycroft's mention made him assume that John was not too far away. He didn't know what all this meant. He wanted John to be clear in his feelings, either hate him or want him, anything in-between was incredibly frustrating. People drove him absolutely mad, he had no time for others, especially ones who he couldn't manipulate and control. He and John weren't like that at all. While they were not on the same intelligence level, Sherlock was him as a complete equal; he wanted John to be his partner completely more than anything. He wanted to run to a bank with John, beautifully disable the security system and steal millions, then return home and take him on the sofa. He wanted John to accept him, to love him even.

He kept glancing up and down the street. He absentmindedly ran a finger over his swollen jaw line. Normally he would have enjoyed such a blow, would have most likely retaliated with beautiful stealth. He was an excellent fighter, mainly because of his brilliant skills of deduction; more often than not he could figure out a man's every move and best him. Fighting was like a game of chess, only with more adrenaline and bruises. He absolutely adored bruises, he found when he was with Jim, he allowed him to mark him, to colour his pale skin with black, purple and yellow markings. He would like John to do that to him. Not like this blow though, this one was full of anger and hate, it did nothing for Sherlock, only made him despondent. He didn't know how John was feeling. He didn't know the true meaning of John's earlier actions. He didn't know what he was going to do. He knew the most pleasant situation was for John to take Mycroft's route out, to forget he had never met him, and delete him from memory. If John stayed with Sherlock he would get hurt, if he turned Sherlock in, he would get killed.

If Sherlock wasn't so selfish, he would wish that he had never asked John to Baker Street. But of course he wouldn't have traded their time together for anything in the world. While it was exhilarating creating crimes with Jim, taking him to bed every night and fighting him in the day, it was the times with John he had loved the most. The friendship, the exploration of each other, the incredibly subtle flirting, the danger and adrenaline they both loved to share with each other. No, there was no way he could ever wish he hadn't met John Watson; it had been the most exhilarating time of his life.

Looking down at the street now, he saw a blonde man heading in the direction of 221b. He still walked with his limp from earlier, showing signs he was still feeling stressed over the pool. He stopped outside the flat, as if he was taking a moment to compose himself, then opened the front door and strode in.

Sherlock turned around ready to face Dr. Watson once more. He had his back pressed against the window pane, almost for support. He had no idea how things were going to pan out, which made him feel incredibly vulnerable, something he was definitely not used to.


	8. Decision Time

4-2

John had wandered up and down the same street for what seemed like a lifetime, his mind racing. He knew what he wanted to do about the whole situation, but he really wasn't sure his conscience could take it. Sure his time in the army was less than decent, but he had tried to put that behind him, tried to be a better civilian. Yet once again he found himself dragged down into a dark world which he found decadently tempting. He knew he would go back to the flat and make the wrong decision, how could he not? He desired Sherlock more than anything, and he had just offered him more danger and adventure than he could ever wish for.

He should be running to Lestrade now, screaming that he had discovered the greatest criminal in London. Instead he was turning around walking back to Baker Street, his heart pumping loudly in his ears. Earlier, Sherlock had kissed him. That had been the most surprising part of the evening. While John was not aware fully of Sherlock's _activities_, he knew he probably had a hobby most would disapprove of. Once he had found out from Mycroft, he also knew Sherlock wouldn't deny it, that he would boast and act like the incredible arrogant sod he was. What he didn't expect, was for Sherlock to read feelings he didn't even realise he was showing, to pick up on his arousal for danger, and his suppressed attraction towards the man. He definitely didn't expect Sherlock to act upon his deductions and kiss him. That was completely unexpected. What was worse was that after John had angrily punched him, he had kissed him back, fiercely and passionately, then just walked out, leaving Sherlock laying on the sofa with a throbbing jaw and bruised throat.

He knew he shouldn't have left, but his brain was set to explode, he needed air, he needed just a few minutes away from Sherlock to make sure he was positive in what he was about to do. He knew once he was in, he couldn't leave. Sherlock and he would be in it forever, and he had to be sure that's what he really wanted.

He stopped outside the flat for a second, taking a few deep breaths, calming himself down. He opened the front door and slowly walked upstairs, his leg still aching slightly. He opened up the already unlocked front door, to see Sherlock stood in the window. He looked almost like an illusion, his pale skin illuminated by the moonlight, his white shirt still slightly covered in dust. Even from this distance John could see the red marks on his neck, and the way his jaw had begun to swell up. Stood there, staring at the man he found his words lost, he had absolutely no clue what to say, how to get his words out.

"I was not expecting you to return," murmured Sherlock.

John swallowed. "What the great Sherlock Holmes misinterpreted me?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, looking confused. "What do you mean?"

"I said I needed to think Sherlock, I never said I needed to leave."

"Your actions are confusing to me."

"Yeah well, I'm not exactly sure what's going on now," John admitted.

"Normal people don't kiss and attack someone in the same moment," said Sherlock, his voice sounding small. John wondered how his punch had really affected Sherlock, perhaps he wasn't used to people retaliating towards him, and he was used to being a domineering figure.

John still stood in the darkness near the flat door, while Sherlock stood in the window at the other side of the room.

"I didn't mean to hit you," he apologised. "I was angry at a lot of things, I still am."

Sherlock smiled sheepishly. "I would have probably done a lot worse if I were in your position. I think the big question now, is what do you want to do?"

"What can I do," said John, sadly. He couldn't deny himself.

"You can leave, I would never make you stay with me," Sherlock replied. "And if you wished to turn me over to the police, I would go willingly, and ensure you were safe in your decision."

John couldn't help but laugh at that. "You know that there is no way your brother would let me walk free after exposing you. He's just as entangled in this as I am about to become."

"I wouldn't let him touch you," growled Sherlock.

"You wouldn't be able to prevent it."

Sherlock lowered his head, almost admitting defeat. John knew Mycroft would protect his brother at all costs, and if John were in the way, he would be quickly removed from the situation, permanently.

"It's no matter anyway," said John. "I have made up my mind as to what I will do."

Sherlock nodded. "I understand. I can have a plane ready for you within the hour."

John laughed, and began to stride over to Sherlock.

"There's much you don't know about other people Sherlock."

Sherlock laughed too, although his chuckle sounded a lot more miserable. "I suppose there will always be certain individuals capable of eluding me."

John had closed the distance now; he and Sherlock were stood facing each other, a few inches in-between their bodies. He reached up slowly and ran his fingers over Sherlock's jaw, bringing them down, touching the red marks on his neck which would form into nasty bruises.

"I'm a dangerous man I think," murmured John, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock hummed at his touch. "That's why I dragged you into my world John. I couldn't let someone like you out of my grasp."

"What you do, what I will do, it's wrong Sherlock."

Sherlock shivered under his words and touch. "But you still want it don't you John? You want me, and the danger?"

"Oh god yes."

Sherlock reached up and closed his fingers around John's wrist and bought his hand away from his shivering skin. He looked into his eyes with a gaze most would see as cold and calculating. It sent waves of excitement through John's body, that look of determination.

"You realise John," he breathed. "That if you give yourself to me, you can never escape. You will be mine in every sense, until we stop existing."

John swallowed heavily at this. It was then that it sunk in how deep he was about to get. He didn't have a choice though, because if he turned his back on Sherlock and this lifestyle he would never forgive himself, he would always wonder what could have been.

"I will stay with you," he responded softly.

Sherlock's grip tightened on his wrist then. "You understand my methods John; you understand how controlling I am."

John only nodded.

"Then you will follow me to the bedroom, and do as I say, because you are _mine_, and will obey me."


	9. Control

5-1

Sherlock had a tight grip on John's wrist as he led him towards the bedroom. Adrenaline pumped around his body as the euphoric feeling of control washed over his body. If it were someone else with him right now, he would have taken the submissive position, played the game he loved so much. Maybe in the future he and John would plan like that. Right now however, was not all about an enjoyable encounter. It was the signing of a contract, the joining of a work partnership and Sherlock showing that he had power. He needed John to realise what everything meant, not that he would give him a choice to escape now. His agreement meant that he would always be Sherlock's, and this was his way of showing John that he belonged to him, in every way.

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's wrist as they entered the dark bedroom. He released to push John down into the bed. It didn't take much force however; the doctor seemed rather willing to comply. He walked over to switch the bedside lamp on, before returning to loom over the bed.

"I can be rather vicious when I am aroused," drawled Sherlock lazily.

John looked up and remained silent, only smirking at Sherlock. That angered him almost as much as it turned him on. The smirk was a sign of defiance, a way of almost daring Sherlock to do his worst. Of course he would. He would make John cry and beg and moan. He crawled onto the bed in one fluid moment, placing his body above John's. Again, the doctor looked at him with defiant eyes. He leaned forward slowly, until their lips were almost touching. He noted the way John eagerly parted his lips, his tongue darting out with anticipation. However instead of giving John what he expected, he whipped his head down and sank his teeth into John's neck. John cried out with surprise and automatically raised his hands to pull Sherlock off of him. Sherlock was too quick; he caught John by the wrists and slammed his arms back into the bed, holding him down. When John struggled he dug his fingernails deep into his skin, causing the doctor to hiss with pain. Sherlock stopped biting then and began to slowly run his tongue up John's neck.

"I'm going to let go of you now," breathed Sherlock. "If you touch me, I will punish you, and it will hurt. Do you understand?"

John didn't answer with words, only whimpered and nodded his head. Sherlock slowly released his grip on John's arms and gave him a second to compose himself. He lifted his head up and stared lustfully at John, licking his lips with anticipation. He changed his position so he was on his knees, sitting on top of John. His straightened up his back and took in a second to drink in John. He slipped a hand under John's jumper and began to rake his fingers across his bare chest. He could feel that John was enjoying himself. He began to move his hips slowly, grinding his body against John's as he caressed his chest. John's hand suddenly shot up and gripped Sherlock's knee. With his free hand Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John's hair and jerked his head back, causing the doctor to yelp.

"Behave," growled Sherlock.

He loosened his grip but did not untangle his fingers, he instead wrapped his hands in John's locks, cradling his head and burying his fingertips into his skull. He carried on moving his hips and touching John's body with his other hand, casually brushing his thumb over John's nipple. The doctor moaned at the touch, closing his eyes momentarily.

"Tell me that I make you aroused," commanded Sherlock.

"Fuck Sherlock," growled John. "Can't you tell how much you are turning me on?"

"How much?"

"I want to nail you right here, right now."

Sherlock smiled, satisfied with the answer. Of course it wouldn't be John initiating the encounter, but he wouldn't let him know that just get. He swiftly removed John's jumper then leaned down to hungrily kiss him, working on his own shirt buttons as he did so. He continued to grind against John at an agonisingly slow pace, causing the doctor to moan rather loudly. The sound made Sherlock gleeful, made him want to touch John. He moved his body backwards slightly so he was resting upon John's knees, and began to remove his jeans and underwear. He found himself surprised at the sight of John lying naked beneath him, twitching ever so slightly, his chest moving up and down rapidly. He couldn't help but bite his lip as he began to roughly run his hands over John, causing the doctor to yelp and moan at the same time. The sounds escaping his lips was like a sweet intoxicating drug for Sherlock, he lapped it up, mentally storing it in an empty space within his brain. Then without warning, he thrust his face downwards, burying himself in John's pubic region. He continued to move his hands over John as he buried deeper, inhaling, filling his lungs with the masculine scent of John. He moved his face upwards then, letting his teeth return, placing bites a little too roughly across John's stomach. John seethed with pain, but the involuntary twitching meant Sherlock knew he enjoyed it. Not that it mattered; he was in control and would do as he pleased.

He sat upwards then, taking his hands away from John so he could remove the rest of his clothes. John lay there with his mouth wide open as Sherlock quickly became naked. Sherlock let out a growl, arousal taking over him, the need for contact consuming him. He reached over and produced a bottle of lube, and covered both his hands in it. He roughly separated John's legs, leaning down to kiss and bites his thighs aggressively. He lifted up his head slightly to watch John intently, and began to massage himself, at the same time, inserting a finger into John. John's eyes suddenly went wide and full of concern, and Sherlock suspected it wasn't because of the sudden insertion.

"Aren't you going to... use...protection?" stuttered John, a look of almost horror on his face.

Sherlock grinned widely as he inserted another finger and watched John struggle to suppress a moan.

"No I am not," drawled Sherlock. "I am clean, as are you. I do not wish anything to get in the way." He leaned his head down and licked John's ear, then began to whisper in it. "When we copulate John Watson, you shall feel me and only me. That's how it will be from now on. No other human will touch you, you are mine. When I reach my climax you will feel everything, you will feel as I claim you, do you understand."

"Y-y-yes"

"Now, beg for me John." He removed his fingers and positioned himself, teasing John.

"Oh god Sherlock," John cried, grabbing at the sheets to prevent himself touching Sherlock. "Oh fuck please just take me, I _need_ you to take me."

Sherlock continued to tease. "Not good enough."

John let out a loud whine. "Please Sherlock, please fuck me" his breathing was laboured and his words stuttered. "I have to be yours, right now"

In one swift movement Sherlock entered John and began to thrust hard. His pace was neither agonisingly slow nor wildly fast, but it was enough for it to feel amazing for both of them. Sherlock knew John wouldn't last long; he had built him up too quickly. As for himself, he could easily use his brain to match John's elated mood.

"Grab a hold of my hips," Sherlock commanded gruffly as he subtly quickened the pace. John reached out shaking hands and found Sherlock's body, digging his fingernails in deep to Sherlock's hipbones. Sherlock purred at the pleasurable pressure and picked up his pace more, which in turn led John to dig his nails in even deeper as he moaned with each thrust.

"G-God Sherlock, I am close," John whimpered breathlessly.

Sherlock growled loudly in response, not slowing down.

"No," he snapped. "You will not climax until I say you can."

John's eyes widened at his command, then rolled back into his head as Sherlock's motions became faster and deeper still. Sherlock was sure his violent movements would cause John some pain; he didn't want him to be able to walk for days. He could feel himself closing in now, the familiar hazy buzzing began to take over his brain and he struggled to keep control of himself.

"John...John you are mine," He growled struggling to hold on.

"Oh, god, yes, I'm yours Sherlock!"

The exclamation caused Sherlock to go over the edge, reaching his climax, demanding John join him at the same time. Seconds after John obeyed, crying out Sherlock's name as he did so. They both rode out the climax together, Sherlock roaring like an untamed maniac, and John moaning Sherlock's name over and over again.

Sherlock rolled over and lay next to John as they both struggled to control their breathing. A slow and seductive smile crept upon Sherlock's face, he was completely satisfied he had claimed ownership of Doctor John Watson.


	10. Skin

5-2

John wasn't sure if Sherlock had fallen asleep. He lay next to John, completely still, his eyes shut tight. If it wasn't for the subtle rising and falling of his chest and the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, he could've been mistaken for a corpse. He lay fully naked on top of the sheets, his arms and legs spread out so he very much resembled the Vitruvian man. John couldn't help but take a moment to run his eyes over the naked mans entire body, drinking it all in. His long and slender legs were well toned, covered in the same mahogany hair which covered the rest of him; John had an urge to twist the hair around his fingers as he felt around Sherlock's body. Under those tight shirts and trousers one could easily mistake Sherlock Holmes for a lanky man, but now John could plainly see the well toned muscles which adorned his chest. His chest was bare, save a small trail of hair that started at his navel and followed downwards. His alabaster skin highlighted his bone structure, drawing attention to his pointed elbows, his jutting hips, and his beautiful collarbone. John was getting breathless just thinking about it, he had a devilish urge to sink his teeth into those perfect hips. He admired for possibly the first time the appeal of Sherlock's hands, large with slender fingers, he began to recall moments of Sherlock using his hands, and how fascinating it was. His neck looked even more slender away from a collared shirt. Sherlock's position meant his head was thrown back, exposing his throat fully to John, stirring even more excitement within him. His gaze went to Sherlock's face now, still and serene, frozen in a post-coital haze. His full pale lips were parted slightly, almost as if Sherlock were enticing John to kiss them. His nostrils flared slightly with each breath, and his impossible cheekbones were slightly flushed, looking more delectable that ever before. His usually fluffy curls were matted to his forehead, the smell of pheromones, sweat and shampoo mixing together. John wanted to bottle that smell, to bathe in it, to breathe it until he became dizzy with lust.

John knew this would happen, he knew the second he slept with Sherlock Holmes he would be ensnared, and completely infatuated. God he knew this insufferable and dangerous man would be the death of him.

"You are staring." Stated Sherlock, his voice lazy and loud, causing John to jump slightly.

"Christ Sherlock I thought you were asleep," he muttered.

A smirk appeared on Sherlock's face. "Not at all, how could I, my body is full of adrenaline."

"Oh...right..."

Sherlock lazily opened his eyes and looked over at John. "John stop being so human, I am not implying that our sexual encounter was so dull it did not tire me out. I am stating that the nature of today's events has caused my body to create extra adrenaline in order for me to cope with such things."

John cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. "Oh, well that's okay then."

"You have questions."

John cursed. It wasn't enjoyable for Sherlock to practically know everything he was thinking.

The smile appeared back on Sherlock's lips. "I will answer any and every question you have John, but for now I am not inclined to be quizzed. Come, lie with me." He shifted his arm slightly, as if he intended John to lie against his chest.

John raised an eyebrow. "Bit of an emotional thing that isn't it? Us lying together after sex?"

Sherlock looked confused. "And why should that not occur? You have just given yourself to me John, you are mine always, and I will treat you as such. You may believe me to be cold and heartless, but those things I will never show you."

"And why is that?"

"You are being dull again John," he sighed. "I obviously care about you, very much so; otherwise I would have ordered you out of my life a long time ago. Furthermore the fact that I decided to divulge every one of my dark secrets to you surely shows my feelings towards you and that I do now wish to stir any negative emotions within you. Now, you have me talking about subjects I do not wish to discuss; lay."

John obeys and lay back down on the bed, letting Sherlock put his arm around his shoulder and pull him in close. John instinctively placed his head upon Sherlock's clavicle, and draped a hand tentatively across his stomach.

"Do you want to sleep?" asked John.

"No, increased adrenaline levels remember?" Sherlock reminded him. "Tell me John, why was it that you were really shot and removed from military service."

"If you are not telling secrets, then neither am I," answer John gruffly.

Sherlock chuckled and pulled him closer. "Touché doctor Watson, you are quite a remarkable man."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes and fantastic shag."

John couldn't help but laugh at such a normal and strange compliment leaving Sherlock's lips.

"I can be nice you know," Sherlock huffed, sensing the cause of John's laughter.

"I just never expected this, sorry," said John. "I expected you to be quite cruel to me you know, not care."

"I haven't been entirely nice, I'm sure you will want to rest that body of yours tomorrow, you are sure to be sore." He paused as John looked over his own body, noticing the red marks which were sure to bruise, and mentally noticing the pain from their encounter.

"Sorry about that, maybe I will go easy on you next time, but declaring yourself mine means I had to take you in such a way."

"So my pain in the morning will be my fault then?"

Sherlock laughed. "Mainly yes! Don't worry though, I shall stay in bed with you, we shall talk over anything you wish. Oh and as for thinking I wouldn't care, I am offended at how you judge me John; I have shown nothing but affection for you, however blind you have chosen to be towards it."

John blushed ashamedly at this; he had quickly judged Sherlock, when really they were so similar in how they felt for each other.

"I'm tired," murmured John, the waves of thought making his brain work harder than it wanted to.

Sherlock reached up and stroked his hair in an affectionate manner.

"Then sleep, here, we will discuss everything in the morning."

John fell asleep soundly in Sherlock's arms, worrying about nothing.


End file.
